


What Your Mouth Was Made For

by TeaHouseMoon



Series: The Vanilla Kinks series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Biting, Blowjobs, Filth, First Time, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Plot What Plot, Sex, Sherlock gives John a blowjob, There is swearing, but with feelings, filth more filth, first time blowjob, in case it wasn't clear, just porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 16:07:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5096855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaHouseMoon/pseuds/TeaHouseMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are you sure you want to?”</p><p>John cocks his head to the side, and reaches out to smooth a rebellious curl back behind Sherlock’s ear, tenderly. </p><p>“Yes. Why not? You've done it for me so many times”, Sherlock replies, in a low purr, that voice that's just made for sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Your Mouth Was Made For

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second story in my Vanilla Kinks series. The stories are mostly PWPs, Johnlock, and centered about a 'vanilla kink' - something that's a little kinky, but nothing extreme.
> 
> ps I love comments! ;)

“Are you sure you want to?”

John cocks his head to the side, and reaches out to smooth a rebellious curl back behind Sherlock’s ear, tenderly. The air around them is warm, almost damp but in a soft, cosy way; they've turned off the lights in the living room and now the only source of light comes from the neon lamp hanging from the kitchen ceiling.

“Yes. Why not? You've done it for me so many times”, Sherlock replies, in a low purr, that voice that's just made for sex.  
John leans in, takes his mouth in a slow, undemanding kiss. 

“I know, but – you’ve never done it before…”

Sherlock frowns, his expression piqued. 

“Then perhaps this is when I start.”

John looks at his face, his resolute expression; the kind Sherlock always has when he wants to do something and isn't going to let anybody stop him.  
John smiles; skims his hand down Sherlock’s cheek, his index and middle finger going to touch the corner of those full, damning lips; and then nods. Looking behind himself on the sofa, he shifts a pillow a bit, fluffs it with a slap of his hand, then leans back, torso propped up against the arm of the sofa but legs out – one stretched along the couch, the other half bent and hanging from the side.  
Sherlock moves back a little to give him space and then immediately kneels in the narrow space between John's legs, lets his backside rest lightly half on the side of John's left knee and calf. His hands go to work on the fly of John’s jeans; John chuckles quietly at his impatience.  
He watches those pale, graceful hands work on unfastening his trousers; they're impatient, pull the garment down just enough to expose John's cock – hard already, standing alongside his belly, eager for Sherlock’s body, any part of his body - and they're warm and so heavenly smooth when they touch him – one hand holds around the shaft, the other, a bit less confidently, wraps around John's bollocks, a surprised, marvelled sigh exiting Sherlock’s swollen lips at the feeling of softness, fullness. 

John exhales, “Ah…”, wets his lips and closes his eyes for a moment. Sherlock's hands are reverent, even too much so perhaps and his touch is lighter than John is used to – but there is time. John opens his eyes again, and Sherlock looks up too, smiles a little; his hand goes up and down on John’s cock, a bit more steadily, while the other lets go of his testicles and plants itself on the edge of the sofa. 

“Your mouth, now?”, John ventures, and feels cheeky for doing so, but Sherlock smiles – his open, vulnerable smile, the one that always makes John's heart skip a beat – and he looks proud that John is asking, wants him to do it.  
He bends forward over John’s thighs, and uses his free hand to lift John’s heavy cock, shift it a little, very carefully, to the side, towards his mouth. Eyes chained to John’s, Sherlock gives an experimental lick. Just to the side, just below the glans.  
John holds his breath, can feel the warmth of Sherlock's exhales against his skin; and it's so good already.  
Sherlock licks again; his tongue is bolder this time, and slides up, slow, from the middle of the shaft up to the crown, over it. 

“Fuck”, John mumbles. He props himself more securely against the sofa arm; gets ready for the show. “Come on, Sherlock”.

Sherlock's eyes are wide and glittering. He settles back more securely as he sits on his folded right leg, takes a breath, and then comes close again. His lips, full with arousal, wrap gently around the glans and he kisses it, kisses John’s penis, with a smacking wet noise, closing his eyes as he does so. As if he is kissing John’s mouth – which makes John tremble with tenderness but also with desire, because, fuck, he wants that mouth on his cock and he wants it in any way he can have it.  
He sits still as a statue, breathing deeply, and keeps watching. Sherlock looks at him again and then licks again – his foreskin, the slit, slowly, tasting – then opens his mouth just so and wraps the sinful lips around the crown; takes a breath; sucks, experimentally. 

“Fuck.”

John can't help it. He is already full to bursting and as tense as a violin chord and desperately desperately wants to buck up and push himself into that mouth, but inexplicably, magically he manages to keep his wits about himself. Watches, as Sherlock slides down his cock, just one small precious inch, his eye closed as if he's really enjoying it. John's hand twitches – he wants to sink it into Sherlock’s hair, squeeze…

What he isn't expecting, is the sharpness of teeth against his skin that makes him flinch for a moment. He frowns, plants wild eyes on Sherlock as the younger man pulls off slowly, looks sheepish. 

“Sorry”.

John blinks, takes a deep breath. “Just - don't do it again”. He's dismissive, because he is impatient – just continue what you were doing, he wants to say, God, you're killing me here.  
He doesn't see the mildly piqued expression in Sherlock’s green eyes; too busy concentrating on not moving his hips, wait, wait – he doesn't see the flash of teeth until he feels them on himself again, around the tip, just the barest hint of hard surface instead of soft and warm and wet.. 

“Sherlock!” 

His voice is louder now. Sherlock is smiling, bloody rascal that he is. Of course he has to go and do exactly the opposite of what he's told; but right now John has no time for his rebellious ways. He sits up, grabs him around the shoulders suddenly with both hands, makes him lift up from his body. Sherlock inhales in surprise, then gives a quiet laugh. 

“Now”, John tries to keep his voice down. “Now is the time you decide you want to play?”

Even as they close, sheepishly, Sherlock's eyes glitter mischievously. John can't really get angry, not right now at least, but he is tense and aroused almost to the limit so he has to work extra hard to keep himself under control. 

“What if I bit you??”, he challenges. “Huh?”

“You did bite me”, Sherlock counteracts. John's hands are still keeping his shoulders captive and so he has to half-hunch over him, his own hands placed idly on John's belly and the couch, waiting to be freed. “The other day, did you forget?”

The memory of the red bruise he left on the tender skin just under Sherlock’s right nipple –two days ago, when they had sex after Sherlock stroppily demanded attention ‘because John had been at work all day’ – makes John close his eyes very briefly and take a deep breath. 

“That doesn't count.” 

He lets his left hand slide from Sherlock’s shoulder, up over the side of his throat, into Sherlock’s hair. He grabs a good handful, and closes his fist firmly, pulling the strands as a result; Sherlock’s eyes close, almost roll back in the sockets. John’s other hand lets go of Sherlock and finds purchase behind himself on the couch so that John can get closer to Sherlock’s face.  
“Maybe I should bite you right here, on your throat”, he says, voice low, threatening. “Leave a nice red mark so everybody will know that you’ve been punished because you're such a damn pain in the arse when you're having sex with people”.

He places his lips against the side of Sherlock’s neck; kisses a bit, licks. Sherlock squirms. 

“No, John”, he protests, but his protest is weak. His eyes are still closed, and when John moves his mouth, finds the most delicate spot – not on the tendon, on the patch of skin right below it, where it’s softest – Sherlock tilts his head a little to the side, to give him more space. 

John growls, loud and animalistic in his throat. He bares his teeth and places only the front ones on the throat, pushes a little just to make him feel it. Just a little, just a little more...

“Fuck, Sherlock.”

John pulls back, opens wide, pupil-blown eyes, looks at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock opens his eyes as well and they're still glittering, turquoise in the dimmed light of the room. They're both breathing hard; John thinks he will go crazy really soon if he keeps hanging around Sherlock, lusting after him, his body, desiring him that way. He isn't a young man anymore – he isn't sure if he's still built to withstand such a constant, all-consuming feeling of want, of desire. He isn't sure he's really supposed to still be driven to distraction by dark curls, long eyelashes, slim hips – the concave, intimate shape of his flat belly; the delicate facial traits – those full, absolutely, completely ridiculous, beautiful lips. 

“These lips…”, John growls quietly. His hand strokes down Sherlock’s cheek and his thumb skims the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. His throat feels parched. “These lips, they were – made for…”

“They were made for blowjobs”, Sherlock interrupts him to say. Good thing, because John would have never found the wits to actually say it out loud – as much as he lusts after him, Sherlock is still so precious to him and yes, it is absolutely true: those lips look amazing wrapped around his cock. But John loathes to imply that Sherlock could ever do that for anybody else. 

Sherlock smiles, victorious. He turns a little, just enough to kiss John’s thumb – and then pulls back, takes control of the situation because John is somehow speechless, frozen by his own, shameless thoughts. 

“Only for you”, Sherlock’s baritone promises, low and caressing. “I only do it for you”. He bends down once again, eases John’s cock up from his belly with a hand, lowers his mouth over it once again. John bites his lower lip, hard, to try and slow down, get a grip; he's aroused like he's rarely ever been in his life. Sherlock's mouth is hot, wet, his tongue strokes deliciously. At every bob of his head he goes a bit further down, lets the shaft push a bit further into his throat; after a while, John's hand flies to the top of Sherlock’s head, stops it from lifting up after another dip. 

“Let me…”, he asks quietly. Sherlock looks up at him from under his eyelashes, just for a moment; John strokes Sherlock’s fringe away from his forehead, makes sure he can see his face, particularly his lips when they're wrapped around his cock. Then he starts pushing, pulsing his hips a little, up and down into Sherlock’s mouth. He increases the depth by tiny increments; carefully, carefully judges how far he can go. Sherlock lets him; he closes his eyes, relaxes his jaw enough to allow John room for movement, he's so clever and he doesn't need to be told; keeps his teeth away this time, thankfully. John listens to his breathing, makes sure he's comfortable – he wouldn't be able to enjoy it if he knew Sherlock wasn't. Then, he pushes one last time, slow but deep: his glans caresses Sherlock’s throat, John feels it working as he swallows, then he pulls back, and takes his hand from Sherlock's curls.

It's the first time, after all; he really doesn't want to push him too hard.

"Sherlock", he calls. Sherlock plants his eyes on him, the blue shimmering again. He has a fist wrapped around the base of John's cock, slowly massaging in tiny movements up and down. "Go on, darling. Keep going".

The feeling of that hot mouth around himself is something John will never get enough of, now that he's experienced it. Those swollen red lips, the eyelashes fanning on the white skin, the way Sherlock seems to lose himself in what he's doing is what eventually pushes John over the edge, and when he feels the wave of pleasure start deep within his belly he gently nudges Sherlock off - again, first time, too much - and quickly fists himself, just a couple of quick pulls until he comes into his hand with a long, satisfied, harsh moan.

"C'mere and kiss me", John demands when he's got his breath back. Sherlock obeys, crawls forward, joins their mouths, and John kisses him hungrily, thoroughly, steals his own taste from his mouth.  
When they part, he looks into Sherlock's wide eyes.

"You were gorgeous." Another kiss. "This mouth..."

Sherlock smiles, and they kiss again, a full on, deep snog that threatens to make John hard again. Jesus, what was he saying about not being young anymore? If not the stamina, he feels he certainly has the hormones of twenty year old.  
He pushes himself up to sit - Sherlock kneels back on the couch to accommodate him - and reaches his clean hand to hastily open Sherlock's trousers, take him out, start fisting the swollen flesh. Sherlock doesn't think twice: he grabs John's other hand and guides it to his own cock, lets it wrap around it - John's come and all.

"Nasty bastard...", John leers, approvingly; rewards him with an even deeper kiss. The wetness helps, and his hand strokes Sherlock until the younger man bucks up, can't help but break the kiss, just breathes into John's mouth.

"I love you, John", Sherlock murmurs, eyes closed and breathing hasty. 

"Yeah?", John breathes back. "Come on then, gorgeous. Show me. Show me, Sherlock..."

Sherlock's hips give two violent jerks, his head falls forward between his shoulders, over John's chest, sweaty tangled curls almost ending up in John's mouth. He cries out his orgasm - John doesn't let go of his cock until the hips stop twitching, until Sherlock asks him to with a hand on his arm and a weak, mellifluous moan. John loves him when he's like that.

They both fall back to the couch, John lying down and Sherlock draped over him, head on his chest and eyes closed, and they're both sweaty and exhausted but not ready to move yet. 

"I told you I could do it, John." Sherlock's voice is a mumble.

"Mmmh."

"But of course, I can always show you again..."

John chuckles.

"I look forward to that".

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Twitter: @IamDorothyGale and/or on Tumblr: MsDorothyGale. 
> 
> I take prompts! If you have an idea for the Vanilla Kinks series, feel free to message me on Twitter or Tumblr, and we can talk about it... :)


End file.
